by Sarah Walton
‘Patch’s legs are as muscle-bound as Saracen’s. Remember him?’ My voice jerks as my feet hit the ground. I might be fit, but my lungs aren’t used to running and talking. The gymnasium track’s a solitary sprint.
‘The champion of Alexandria.’ Croc’s voice is smooth as he runs. ‘Man, what a gladiator he was. Don’t let Patch hear you. Head’s big enough, ain’t it, now he’s second in command.’
We had to talk and run to avoid getting caught: take that street, climb this roof. Serapis knows, our lives went in different directions, but here we both are again as if time in the gang was just preparation for running through Alexandria’s streets today. Hang in there, Kiya, Seth, Henite. We’ll get you out.
‘Croc, what’s with all the rubbish?’ The riot must have passed through Museum Street. Abandoned baskets of fruit and vegetables are strewn across pavements, melons crushed to pulp by chariot wheels like they’ve been discarded in a panic. That orange scarf’s heading for the sewage duct; it twists, phantom-like in the wind before landing in the muck. Water flowing down the gutter drags it into its stream. I gave Kiya a scarf that shade once.
‘Trouble ahead, man. Just how we like it!’
Croc’s shaggy hair whips in his face – still avoiding the barber – as his head darts left and right. Gang life taught us to keep spirits high before a job. We’ve a way to go before we reach the end of Museum Street, and the east entrance to the Agora. Laughter will take our minds off the nerves, but this isn’t just another job.
‘Brought the weather with you, man.’ That good-humoured grin; I’ve missed it. I’ve missed this: Croc bobbing along next to me like we’re sprinters on the track. We fell back into the competitive spirit of our youth straight off.
‘Poseidon’s bin eating lentils.’ Still laughing at your own jokes, Croc?
‘Shit man, look at the sea!’ Croc’s finger points down Pharos Street as we run past. ‘The Lighthouse is getting a right spanking.’ Huge rollers spray as their white caps break and boom beyond the harbour. The roar blasts right through me.
‘Summer storm coming.’ I can still predict the weather like a city boy. Am I still the same to Croc, or have my years perfecting Latin sibilants and rounding Greek vowels changed me? ‘Or Poseidon’s sending another Day of Horror!’
Where’s Croc’s grin gone? We grew up with the stories of storms that sent houses out to sea and beached whales and ships.
‘Don’t take the piss, man. You know my ma was eaten by a sea monster.’
‘I thought Poseidon kidnapped your mother?’
‘Poseidon, sea monster. Same thing, ain’t it, man?’
No answer to that.
‘Race yer! Last one to the obelisk’s a cinaedus.’
‘Watch your mouth, Croc.’ Racing will slice through these nerves. Our legs kick up dust. I’m glad of the wind now, cooling my skin. Those chariots are all tearing in the same direction… towards Sun Gate, out of the city… the only sensible direction.
The beat and flare of dust under foot feels good. So does winning. No need to reach for the marble of the obelisk, rising up, high above the walls of the arcades. Croc’s a good few paces behind me. Alexander plonked so many of the monuments all over Alexandria the city must look like a pin pad from the sky. It was odd seeing its twin in Rome. Caligula pinched it.
‘Who’s the cinaedus, Croc? You’re panting like a dog.’ Serapis knows, I’m still a hybrid Alexandrian boy, even if I speak Greek like a well-bred Roman. Although… the roundness of my Greek vowels is sliding away now I’m back with Croc, my old gutter accent’s trying to surface. All that contorting of my gob never felt natural.
‘Have you seen him, yer old honey-nose?’ Rufius was just another deep purse, a generous arsehole to Croc.
‘Not for ten years. Went straight to the church when I got off the boat. Have you?’
‘See his litter at the end of Venus Street now and then. His slave, the tall Greek… he delivers books to Turk sometimes. Deal’s done behind closed doors.’
‘Apollinos.’ So, Rufius never freed him. Apollinos would never leave Rufius anyway.
Croc shrugs. ‘Whatever his name is. I’m not in the inner circle.’ That shrug was resignation.
Slowing down to a jog are you, Croc? ‘Sure you don’t need a rest, to catch your breath?’
That squint and scowl means shut it, or I’ll shut it for you.
‘Croc, come on, Turk’s nearly at Harbour Street.’
‘Aeson, man, you can still run even now you’re a honey-nose.’
He’ll drop the cinaedi jokes now I won the race. ‘Get a move on Croc, we’ve got locks to pick.’
‘Turk was right: skirting round the back of the Agora is a better route.’ A gang of forty odd youths is suspicious.
‘Strategic, Turk calls it.’ Turk’s precision in planning a job still makes Croc roll his eyes.
‘Keep up, Croc! Pump those lovely legs of yours.’ Running against this wind is tough. Up side is it cools the sweat.
‘He’s still a tosser, man.’
‘And the rest.’
What’s that chant? More like a battle cry. It’s coming from the other side of the arcade wall. ‘What… the fuck’s… going on… in the Agora?’ My voice jerks as I speed up.
Citizens run towards us down Museum Street. Men’s togas whip up in the wind and women’s long dresses twist against their bodies as they hold wailing babies against their chests.
‘Man, this lot all look like Pan’s been making mischief under their tunics.’ I’ve missed that to-Hades-with-it look.
‘Something’s panicked them. They look petrified.’ I witnessed that same expression in Athens. Urgency pumps my thighs faster.
‘Watch it, old man.’ Croc pulls a man fumbling with his toga out of the path of a chariot. The scrolls under his arms bounce into the muck in the road.
‘Oh Apuleius, my only copy, ruined!’
‘Here, sir. Just horse shit, sir, is all.’ Trembling hands take the books from Croc. He’ll laugh when I tell him it’s a story about an ass.
‘What’s happening in the Agora?’ My voice is gritty, throat scratchy from the dust.
What are you looking up at sky for, old man? Fury contorts his face.
‘Soldiers. They’ve set the Museum on fire. Gods, piss on their graves.’
Olympus is closed. The gods prop up the masonry of churches now, old man.
We look down Museum Street towards the Museum. Black smoke billows upwards into grey clouds. Rufius, I hope you had the cowardly sense to stay at home today. Picturing Rufius safe at Biblos doesn’t relax the tug in my gut. We have to free Kiya and Henite and Seth.
‘Take my advice, take refuge in the Serapeum until sanity returns.’ The Librarian hurries off towards Serapis Street clutching his soiled books, his curses swallowed by the wind. Croc and I stare after him. I never thought I’d see a librarian on the run, like a street kid with his purse-pickings.
Urgency grabs me like a great fist by the throat.
‘We don’t’ have much time, Croc.’
‘The Magistrate won’t try them until late afternoon. They never do in the summer. Too hot for honey-noses.’
If it’s anything like Athens, it will happen fast. The Prefect must be in cahoots with the Archbishop if the soldiers are looting. Monks are banned from the cities, but once they arrive there’ll be real trouble.
Turk’s words are lost on the wind as he stands at the crossroads of Museum Street and Harbour Street shouting orders at the gang.
‘What’s Turk saying?’
‘Look’s like he’s telling us to back up.’
Turk’s left arm rises to halt us. He peers round the corner of Harbour Street, head darts left to the harbour then right. His hand shoos us back. What’s he seen?
Without a word, the gang backs up, heads and shoulders against the arcade wall, necks stretched as far right as they’ll go; forty pairs of eyes strain to see the danger down the street, muscles tense and ready, ha
nds feel for the hilts of daggers.
That chant again. Heretics what?
‘HERETICS BURN, HERETICS BURN, HERETICS BURN.’
The mob, the Christian mob. They’re inside the Agora.
Soldiers surge towards the Agora, swords bloodied to their hilts. They must have come from the Museum. The Archbishop of Alexandria is behind this – I’ve heard the dark rumours. They say he’s a fanatic. And now he has the support of the army… my gut churns… I have to rescue my friends.
Turk juts his chin up: the silent order to climb the arcade wall.
Another signal, for Croc and me: keep watch at ground level. You would order me over to the opposite side of the street, wouldn’t you Turk? Always did put me in harm’s way.
Dagger out… the hilt’s warm from being pressed close to my skin. Croc clocks it and grins. He recognises the knife, a gift from his stash the night he fleeced Rufius. Let them come; this corner is defended. My gut tenses; I’m ready for whatever marches round that corner.
Sandals round necks, forty youths between the ages of twelve and twenty-five pull themselves up onto the long flat roof of the arcades. Patch orders the gang with the old hand signals. Surefooted they creep, knees bent, backs low to take up their positions. This is a well-practised drill. What scraps does Turk throw you, Patch, for your loyalty?
That chinking noise… where’s it coming from?
Turk’s gladiator chest plate knocks against the wall as he climbs, covering pects he never had. He’s dressed for the occasion!
Patch’s head hangs over the roof, slicing his neck with the flat of his hand. Croc waves me over from the far side of the street.
My shrug and frown asks, what does that signal mean?
‘Trouble.’
‘Let’s get up there then.’
We both run at the wall. Croc’s hands and feet are less confident than mine. Still hate heights, don’t you Croc?
43
Rufius
Kiya and I sway like we’re riding bloody camels across the desert – being carried across the city on the backs of slaves is even less dignified. Apollinos’ back is wet with sweat. Ha! Kiya’s face couldn’t get any redder; she made such a fuss about Cassius carrying her.
‘Comfortable up there, dear?’
‘Sweet Sophia, make the slave put me down.’
Cassius has held his breath all the way from the Museum. Kiya smells like the rubbish tips. At least it’s stopped him sobbing, taken his mind off his younger brother… memory plays the scene of Antinous’ legs being sliced off yet again: the boy collapsing on his kneecaps… crushed yellow rose petals falling from Damasus’ fingers… block it out! I must block the memory.
What in Bacchus’ name is going on in the Agora?
‘Halt, everyone! Apollinos put me down.’ Apollinos releases his grip on my arse and I slide off his back. I don’t believe my eyes. Hundreds, no thousands of black-cloaked monks chant and pump their staffs in the Agora. ‘What’s that pyre for?’
‘Sweet Sophia, pyres are built for one reason: funerals.’
Cassius looks up, blonde curls lash his face in the wind. ‘The heavens are angry.’
Kiya nods. ‘This weather is an omen.’
Rain clouds drift over the Agora and the sun casts a sickly glow through the grey.
I must have a closer look; an invisible cord of curiosity pulls me to the Agora entrance.
‘Master, get on my back. We need to get to the Serapeum.’
‘Get off me, Apollinos.’
The old slave’s right – we should move on before the monks spot us – ‘Where did they all come from?’ My voice sounds confused.
Kiya leans over Cassius’ shoulder to get a better view down the street. ‘Sweet Sophia, the demon army has descended from the desert. The End of the World has come.’
We stare, jaws loose with amazement, through the arch at the arcade entrance. The spectacle is too fantastic. ‘That can’t be Phallus!’
It is Phallus! The horny old god’s being paraded on the shoulders of the monks. Their wild dance, black robes swish as they hoist the god on their shoulders. By Bacchus, they’re trying to bash off his knob!
We watch their sadistic ritual: they queue, to give the god’s enormous cock a mighty whack with their staffs. My hand moves to my groin; I wince as Phallus’ cock droops. My heart does a nosedive as if a heavy weight is dropping through me, heart to stomach. It’s off…
Like a great fist has punched us in the guts, we gasp in unison as the god’s huge cock is flung into the fire.
‘Phallus, a eunuch!’ The shock cracks in my voice.
‘Sweet Sophia! Where’s the army?’
‘The army’s in the Archbishop’s purse, dear.’ Disgust makes me spit out the words.
A cheer goes up; the monk that laid the final blow is raised up on shoulders and paraded around the Agora, arms punching the air in victory.
We stare dumbfounded. Even Apollinos is rooted to the spot. This cannot be happening.
44
Aeson
Chins to the roof, like birds on a branch, lined up, we watch. Eyes dart along the line, alert for orders. The same question puzzles all of us: how are we going to get past that mob?
We can’t reach the prison down the side of the Law Court as planned: too many soldiers. I’ve never seen the Agora like this: full and tense like an enormous lung holding its breath underwater. Clouds throw fast-moving shadows over the seething mass of bodies below. Monks in black brandish desert staffs – hundreds more flood the Agora as we watch. They outnumber the pagan mob gripping hammers, kitchen knives and curtain poles. They’re not fighting, yet…
The pyre in front of the Magistrate’s podium outside the Law Court makes my gut churn. Monks are using it as a bonfire to destroy the sacred relics of the temples. The mob jeer, but nobody wants to be the first to strike a blow.
Kiya, Seth, Henite: so close, but how to reach them? Arcade walkways flank the Agora on two sides. On the far side, the Temple of Isis’ tall black granite walls; the Temple of Phallus reaches nearly as high. Between them is the Law Court. The prison is behind it.
Croc’s mouth is a tight line: your thoughts are mine too, old friend.
‘Croc. We’ll get them out.’
‘Man, these tiles are sharp.’
They’re piercing the flat of my stomach too. We shift… no difference.
‘Turk’s gut might burst on these tiles. You seen the size of it? It’s like dough, man.’ Croc puffs out his cheeks.
Neither of us can force a grin.
‘Shush!’ An arm’s length away, on my other side, Turk scans the Agora. What’s he scheming? For once I’m glad to have his cunning on side.
‘Better get comfortable, Croc. We’re in for a long wait by the look of things.’
Even the Commander of the Army – bullish and dressed for battle – is down there on his horse by the podium as his men loot the temples. Soldiers hold back temple priests who cry like children as more book chests are emptied into the flames. The pyre licks higher as sacred books are used as kindle; fragments of burnt paper spin up into the wind.
That pyre’s way too close to the Magistrate’s podium.
‘Man, they gonna fry the Magistrate, or what?’
This is how it always was with us. We think in unison.
‘Croc, are those a pair of tits in the pyre?’ Charred black tits… a headless torso… the suckling baby Horus has been prised from her breast.
‘Tits… must be a goddess… no way, man… Isis’ tits!’ Croc’s eyes stare like a corpse. Mute disbelief travels down the line of gawping faces. I felt the same astonishment when I witnessed the destruction of the temples at Athens.
Temple priests rally anyone who will listen and point to the sky; shop owners cower under the arches of the arcades. Despite the frenzy, no blood’s been spilt… but it’s going to kick off. Alexandrians won’t stand by and watch their gods hacked to pieces on the steps of their temples.
Is that my bowels? A rumble of apprehension rolls in my gut. I need a shit. Never would have gone on a job without having a shit ten years ago.
Even Turk’s amazed. ‘Eh? Not Isis?’
Only one black marble statue remains in the portico of the forty-foot entrance to the Temple of Isis. Ropes hang loose around her regal neck. What’s drawn the soldiers’ attention?
‘Shit, man, look!’ Croc’s nod is manic. The blue-robed priests of Isis are being marched through the crowds to the podium by the soldiers like bounty for a military triumph. If hatred were a sound, this is it: the growl of the pagan mob as their priests are shoved up the wooden steps and into a queue on the Magistrate’s podium.
‘Blood’s gonna flow, man. Look at their faces… the old bloke with the broom, look… and that woman with the hammer. Man, it’s gonna kick off.’
The mob waves domestic weapons at the podium, their fury focused on a tall man in the black cloak of the monks… but he’s no monk. His air of authority dwarfs the inspectors who’ve formed a line at the back of the podium. There’s something familiar about his slender features, his heavy brow…
‘Who’s that?’
Croc flicks his hair from his face as he turns towards me. ‘Archbishop.’
Turk chews and spits. ‘Theophilus. His scumbags bin snooping around Villa Biblos for months. Rufius laughs it off, but Theophilus, he’s a hard man.’
Theophilus, Theophilus…
Turk spits out some Desert Honey he’s been sucking on. ‘What’s the Archbishop up to on the Magistrate’s podium, eh?’
‘Search me?’ A gormless Croc shrug.
‘I’m getting closer so I can hear better.’
We crawl along. Patch points to a few lads to follow us.
What’s Turk frowning about? ‘Eh, careful you two… we need a strategy.’
‘We have a deal, Turk.’
‘To break into the prison – not risk our lives against an army of monks, eh?’
Serapis knows, Turk has the integrity of a woman.